Basically Frightened
by Alice Turner
Summary: A series of one-shots based on whatever song I'm listening to at the moment. Holmes/Irene. Watson will be present too, eventually.
1. Chapter 1

**A new project to get me through the holidays. I'm going to hit shuffle on my iPod and see where it takes me.**

**Title: Like a Heartbeat**

**Song: Tell Me Why, by Taylor Swift.**

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><p>Irene Adler sat perched on the edge of an expensively upholstered stool, pen in hand. She scribbled furiously, hunched over a crisp white parchment that was laid out upon her hotel vanity. Her hair was pulled back into a casual bun, and bits of stray hair curled around her face as she muttered to herself.<p>

"Dear Mr. Holmes," she read aloud. She didn't quite like that bit. It sounded... wrong. Irene crossed it out and selected another sheet of paper. "Dear Sherlock…" No, she thought. Too familiar. New piece of paper.

After an hour of frustration, Irene had finished writing. She sat back and held up her paper, admiring it proudly. She stood and glided over to a medium sized hat box, cooing to herself. Irene secured the letter to the gaudily flourished thing, cracking a devious smile. Selecting her hunter green coat and matching hat, she was off to Baker Street.

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><p>Sherlock Holmes rolled over, opening his eyes instantly. He had heard a knock, a small, hollow knock. Ms. Hudson was out. No one was there to answer the door.<p>

_Oh well, nothing of interest, I'll just go back to sleep_, he thought, lolling lazily on his fur rug. He shut his eyes.

Three seconds later, he was standing in the downstairs foyer, glancing out the window by the front door. He saw a box. An obnoxiously blue hat box, with little flowers sewn into the top. Suspicious.

But curiosity had always been a weakness of his, and he opened the door cautiously. He glanced around. A few people walked down the side walk, but no one appeared to be the owner of this box. Sherlock snatched it into the house, slamming the door. He was stupid of him to bring a random curious box into the foyer if he didn't know what was in it, but he wasn't thinking about that now. Secured with a ribbon to the box was a small note on expensive paper. He untied the note, preparing to read it, while reaching to open the box.

The instant the lid was off, out leapt a bright orange kitten, snarling furiously. Holmes screamed and batted the thing away, snatching at the note. He recognized the handwriting as he read the short sentence written there.

_I win. _

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><p><strong>I admit, I don't know why this song made me write this. But alas, my first addition to my new project is finished. Reviews are appreciated, but you already knew that. <strong>

**-AT**


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, just a heads-up. If you haven't seen the movie yet, you may consider this to be a spoiler. I REFUSE TO ADMIT TO ANYTHING! But just in case, you've been warned. ;D

Song: Only If for a Night, by Florence + the Machine

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><p>He was terrifying. Never in my short life of twenty-eight years had I experienced a force as frightening as James Moriarty. The moment his minion had signaled for the restaurant to empty did I actually realize what I had gotten myself into. I rose from the table, praying he was through with me, when I noticed that I could hardly stand. Stumbling, I attempted to right myself on a table, which only caused me to fall to the carpeted floor. <em>This is it<em>, I thought. _He's won. I'm dying_. His sinister chuckle sounded behind me, and even on the brink of life and death it sent horrible shivers up my spine.

My thoughts drifted away from my current situation, coming upon my old grammar school, my first real love, my father. I flickered in and out of consciousness, before remembering one important aspect of my life. Sherlock Holmes. Suddenly, every memory of us paraded through my head, from the first time I met him, pulling him off the street and into my sitting room, to only a few hours before, in the auction house. _The chase is over, Sherlock. I don't want to run any more. This is it, I give up. You win Sherlock, you win..._

My thoughts slowly drifted and I knew my time was short. _I'm going to hell_, I thought, though too weak to chuckle. At least Holmes would be heading there as well. My mind settled on one of the few times I ever experienced real happiness, trying to calm me, I suppose. I recalled every night Sherlock and I had spent together as I slipped away, and I longed to be there once again…

If only for a night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Okay yeah so I don't know if this is confusing or what, and it isn't sexual either so don't worry. xP**

**I have a feeling this is hard to understand, but give it a shot. It's a tad more…poetic…than my usual work.**

**Song: Simple Math, by Manchester Orchestra.**

His lips crashed into hers, pale fingers intertwined with auburn curls. She sobbed against his mouth, tears of joy, of relief. Tears shed in victory. The same thought repeated itself in his brilliant mind over and over, like a chant whispered in a secret moonlight ritual.

_She's alive, she's alive, she's alive._

Long, graceful, gloved fingers ran over white cotton, tugging at the fabric until it gave way, sliding into some supposed oblivion. She ran her hands over his cool, sculpted chest in ecstatic longing, and she could barely suppress herself.

_He survived, he survived, he survived, _her mind shouted happily in time with her beating heart.

_He lied_, the detective thought. _They lied_, the thief thought.

They melded together in happy reunion, holding and kissing and _breathing. _Neither could live without the other, like oxygen and a flame. And as the two entirely different beings stood together in the empty, moonlit foyer of a certain 221b, they wordlessly decided that their game was afoot yet again, and this time nothing would stop them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Bromance is so attractive.**

**Song: I Write Sins, Not Tragedies, by Panic! At The Disco**

"HOLMES!" A certain doctor roared, banging up the seventeen stairs located in the heart of 221b Baker Street. "WATSON," Mr. Holmes, consulting detective, bellowed back, a slight amount of annoyance tinting his deep voice. Watson strode angrily into Sherlock's study, his face bright red and distorted in attempt to keep calm. "Holmes," he repeated, his voice returning to normal volume. "Watson," Holmes quipped, not bothering to look up from the day's paper, which he was carefully examining from his spot on the floor against his armchair, deciding it was too much work to actually sit _in_ the chair.

Watson sighed in exasperation, closing his eyes. "Holmes, I heard something _most_ interesting today."

"Oh did you, mother hen? And what might that be?" the detective replied lazily.

"You called my wife an idiotic wench."

"She deserved it, Watson. She was threatening to dispose of my chemical samples if I didn't tell her where I had hidden Maria's obnoxious, straight-from-hell, noise-making device of misery."

The doctor only let a long, drawn out huff escape from his lungs, and his fingers rose to his head to massage his temples. "Holmes," he began, "Watch your language, especially around my wife, and if I hear of your harassing her to such a degree again, I will personally deliver to you a punch in the jaw. And secondly, _you_ were the one that gave _my daughter_ that thing you so speak of- and it's called a rattle, Holmes. It's supposed to make noise. Everyone gets one as a child. "

Sherlock said nothing, choosing not to grace Watson's statement with a reply. After a few moments in silence, Watson slumped down into the armchair, snatching the paper from Holmes' hands and flipping to a page of interest.

"Oh how I've missed you, Holmes."


	5. Chapter 5

**I absolutely **_**refuse**_** to believe Irene is dead. **

**Song: The Ghost of You, by My Chemical Romance**

_She can't be dead_, Sherlock thought to himself as he leaned against the railing of the steam-ship headed to France. _It's improbable and illogical. She's Irene Adler, for God's sake, she…_

Holmes stopped himself, his thoughts returning to the present as he felt the soft satin against his calloused hands. _She's what, Holmes? She isn't immortal, everyone dies in the end. _He internally argued with himself, one piece of his mind refusing to accept the fact that Irene was gone and the other side insisting it was true. He sadly glanced out over the gray sea, holding on to the metal railing as to keep himself from just collapsing then and there.

He pulled the soiled kerchief to his face to inhale the perfume that so enthralled him when he noticed something. On the underside of the handkerchief, the seam along the edge was disturbed in one spot, as if someone had cut the seam and then hastily re-sewn it shut. Sherlock fiddled with the red thread for a few moments before suddenly coming across a tiny strip of paper that had been sewn into the kerchief. Upon it, scribbled words read:

_You thought I'd let you win that easily? You underestimate me. Lunch soon? IA_

He stared at the parchment, believing himself to be hallucinating again, and his mind whirled. _Of course she isn't dead, I told you so. She's much too…brilliant…for that_.

In attempt to suppress very uncharacteristic giggles of joy, the detective cleared his throat, slipping the shred of paper into his pocket. Feigning sadness, he threw the fabric over the edge of the ship, watching it curl into the sea below. He turned to face Watson with the saddest of expressions he could muster and took his seat next to his best friend. He slid his hand into his pocket, finding the slip of paper, just to make sure it was real.


End file.
